


Starting the Year Off Right

by Pendles_is_friendles



Series: Alls the Thralls [12]
Category: Battleborn (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood, Gen, Hearts, I need to be better at tags as I tend to use them for the "hey this is the cw" and nothing else, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced unsanitary fluids, Poor Torque and Poor Mortus though, Rock Bottom - Freeform, Two stories about to crash right into each other, Violence, Violence in the last chapter, and cause a lot of chaos, so much plot though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pendles_is_friendles/pseuds/Pendles_is_friendles
Summary: After a rough night of hassling the denizens of the Sinful Bat, Torque finds himself trapped in his shift waiting for the clock to tick down so he can go get drunk and forget about it.





	1. 30 Minutes

The swelling in his knee still had not had the good manners to go down, despite applying heat and ice regularly. Who knew a tiny Jennerit stripper could swing a hammer so hard? Torque grumbled as he pecked at the keyboard, idly flicking through the cameras to watch the facility from his glass box.

His head ached and hands trembled. A sheen of sweat covered his face and arms. Had it been that long since his shift had started? Wiping his eye, he glanced to the tiny clock on the crimson screen. Just another half an hour until his break… just thirty minutes…

Twenty-nine…

Twenty-eight…

Frustration broiled inside him, each noxious bubble of anger the heady beat of an Ekkuni war drum between his horns. His pristine armour screeched when he lifted his clenched fists, as fresh polished pauldron scraped against the shoulder straps of his chest plate. A golden grimace grew across his gritted teeth, but he stopped himself from putting his arms through his desk. Instead, he pressed his crest and horns against the surface of his desk and buried the back of his head beneath his hands.

The Masters were watching. Somewhere, narrowed crimson eyes bored into the flesh of the old Thrall in silent judgement. He could get culled for his symptoms. What good is an old Thrall that cannot even watch a computer screen? What good is a Thrall that cannot even win a fight against an insolent rebel woman, a few strippers, and her tiny abomination? He peeked up at the clock.

Twenty minutes.

“Shit…” He had been burying his head too long. Marking down his observations from the last several minutes, he flicked through the cameras as quickly as his finger and eyes could manage. All clear! He let out a long, deflating sigh as he rubbed his eye again, his stomach beginning to growl in protest of his sensible lunch and lack of his elixir. Saliva pooled in his mouth which he swallowed thickly.

Fourteen minutes left.

Another round of cameras, more notes scrawled across a now damp keyboard. This was hell. He could be culled for this; a Thrall was not supposed to have wants beyond his masters’ demands. What of a Thrall with needs beyond his masters’ wishes? The emerald-horned beast felt green.

Seven minutes.

Still late, he circled the cameras around again and took note; this time a squabble between two of the patrolling guards caught his eye. Before dispatching anyone to break it up, he sat back savouring the distraction. The two would either kill each other or shag each other by the end of it, either option a boon to the time-wasting lieutenant.

Three minutes.

The guards’ argument seemed to hit a lull as Torque caught one of them do a low-headed sweep to see if anyone were watching. For just a brief flash, his eyes met Torque’s camera before he pulled his enemy-turned-partner off towards a supply closet.

Two minutes.

He held his finger over the dispatch button, but the quaking made him hesitate. Sitting back, his chair creaking under the combined bulk of the Thrall and his ornamented armour, he decided to let the kids have their fun. It was not like a pair of gunners would survive an attack. Fodder was all they were. In a way, the officer pitied them.  
One minute.

Hen-pecking his final notes before his break, he took care to omit the gunners’ liaison from the record. He would later edit the footage once he was himself again. Once the pounding in his head stilled and the river of sweat dripping past his plates had stopped.

The door opened behind him, the silhouette of another younger Bonecrusher darkened the exit. He waved a hand in front of his nose as he stepped inside. “Ya know, I hope I don’t smell nearly as bad as you when I’m over a hundred…”  
“I’m not a hundred, mate.” As Torque stood, he took care not to reveal that putting weight on his swollen knee hurt. He shuffled around the other, his gut flipping from the pain and being upright. “You’d do better to learn to respect your elders. I’m still your commanding officer.”

The younger Bonecrusher laughed as he slid the seat out to sit down. “Right, right. ‘Bout that: I imagine that’s temporary.” He typed faster than Torque. He was more alert. “I might get a big promotion, Lieutenant. Isn’t that somethin’?”

“Bah!” Torque waved the kid off as he stepped out of the glass box. He had better things to do than deal with a brat. Despite the want of his knee to give, he marched down the hall making a beeline for the transporters. His yellow cape billowing behind him. In just a few more minutes, he would be down on the surface in a run-down bar. A stiff drink pinched between his fingers and a full bottle on the way. He could finally wash away his worries for just a few hours.


	2. 1000 Credit Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortus needs to get his ship back, but finds that the Eldrid are not prepared to support a large thrall's ability to hop from planet to planet. This forces him to take a risk and seek a ride from a questionable Jennerit.

The whole shuttle shook as Mortus plopped down on the too-small bench. An unfortunate problem of using Ekkuni public transport was that everything aspect of travel was designed for the lithe Aelfrin or the stout Dwarves, not a massive Brute Thrall. The bench groaned as he leaned forward to pluck a long splinter from his lower back, a gift from the root-like surface of the seat.

Mortus groaned as he flicked the beast of a splinter away. He rubbed his hands over his white, cracked face and chin. “I’m a bloody pilot…” he grumbled to himself, but his deep voice travelled farther than he intended. “I shouldn’t have ta deal wit’ this.”

But his Gaboon had been left back in the docking bay of the abandoned base of Arum’s gang. But with it in the Detritus Ring, it had to have been stolen by now.  
The Brute watched as the shuttle pilot started asking passengers to move to the opposite end of the cabin. He knew that the elf was just trying to redistribute the weight inside the craft so it would not roll in flight, but that knowledge did nothing to stop Mortus from burying his face in his hands. “Fine, just let me off. You're not goin’ to balance me wit’ four elves and a handful of dwarves, mate. I’ve got a few tons on them…”

Pulling himself to his hooves, his thick crest slammed into the ceiling. He let out a frustrated snarling bark as he gripped his aching head and slouched off of the shuttle. His thick hooves had barely hit the dirt when he heard the crackling groan of the Eldrid ship close its hatch and tear away from its fresh-grown ramp. Mortus glowered as the knotted, floating tree-ship hovered in place before launching off into the distance.

After kicking a significant gouge into the dirt, he patted at his red and black shorts’ pocket for his comms device and stylus. Feeling the squarish lump on his thigh, he skulked over to a nearby boulder. Dropping down to sit, he growled to himself as he fished his pad out and started poking at it with the corner of his nail to open the search function.

Is there a shuttle from Ekkunar to Deritus Ring?

Is there a shuttle from Ekkunar to Deritus Ring for Thrall?

Take Thrall from jungle to trash?

Much to the Brute’s chagrin, the final search yielded workable results. The rest of the advertisement for the shuttle company was littered with just as offensive and dumbed-down instructions as the search. But, the pointed ears, four-fingered hand and fangs of the man claiming to own the business betrayed the reason for such belittling wording.

In theory, a Jennerit might know how to transport him without veering off into a corkscrew. With a sullen jab of the corner of his nail into the screen, he dialled the number of the shuttle. As it rang, he straightened his posture and even lifted his outer finger in preparation of dealing with someone who would call themselves his master.  
“Greetin’s dear sir,” he started, imitating the most pompous of the fancy folk he had met. “I’d just seen your advertisement on the holographic network as I require your services,” Mortus spoke slowly to not trip over the syllables of his 1000 credit words. “I am currently waiting on Ekkunar and need transport to the Detritus Ring. Hmmm, yes.”

He inspected his nails at the nasally voice on the other end explained that the service was tailored for livestock over humanoids. Scratching his chin, Mortus answered, “I dare say, my good man, surely you can hear that I am one of these so-called beasts and I don’t much appreciate the description that a fellow such as me is “livestock”.“  
"Either way, I still need transport as I am in a predicament and have no need ta be choosy. Send me a shuttle fit for me and we’ll put all this nasty business behind us.”  
Despite the delightful show of politeness, the voice on the other end tossed back that they needed a serial number to send proper transport.

“Hmm… there is no indication on the advertisement that this were an Imperium-based place of business...”

He could hear the light chortle from the other end from his break in character. The Jennerit explained that it would be no issue, the number was just a thing they had to do.  
“Q.45-c131. But dare I say, pay close attention to how Captian Gresham departed his mortal coil. I hear it’s good readin’.” The threat hidden behind his words sent a chill of goosebumps down his skin. Did he have another murder in him? But, it was necessary, given the circumstances. “So, please send the shuttle, post-haste. Thank you.”  
Disconnecting from the call and sending off his coordinates to the shipping company, Mortus collected his things laying beside him and climbed up onto his semi-asleep hooves. He would need to be ready to hop on board in just a few moments.


	3. A Morning at the End of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torque awakens after a night of heavy drinking with opportunity blinking in his comms notifications. Maybe he could finally claw himself out of the deep rut he finds himself in?

A Morning at the End of the Year

Chin down in a puddle of fluid he hoped was drool, Torque's eyes fluttered open. Groaning, he pushed his heavily armoured body up to flop his shoulder against the side of the dumpster. Palming away the moisture from his face and helmet, the rancid stench of piss flushed away any hope that he had just been drooling. Groaning, he tore off his helmet and tossed it aside. It struck the ground and bounced into a pile of trash. The smell rising from the disturbed and torn trashbags resembled the sour taste at the back of his throat and turned his empty aching stomach. “Dammit…” 

Fishing out his rough handkerchief to wipe his face off, Torque could not catch his comms device as it dropped out of his satchel and into the disgusting puddle beside him. Torque let out a growling sigh as he picked up the water-resistant tablet and cleaned it instead of his face. His gut dropped as he stared at the flashing triangle icon in the corner of the screen.

Were the masters looking for him? Had he missed an order while passed out drunk in an alleyway again? His hand wandered to rub his throat as the image of that young Bonecrusher on the search for him, eager to drag him back for his awaiting execution.

This wasn’t how he wanted the last year to end. Or how this one should have started. Torque intended to drink a bottle or two, but two turned into four and four turned into 

He poked the screen, the crimson holograms of triangles sprang to life and assembled into a screen. Bright words scrolled upwards to present: 

"Notice: Wanted traitor Q.45-c.131 reported en transport to Detritus Ring ship wreckage “Alabaster Lily”. The subject is dangerous and defies pacification protocols. Officers report for collection and containment of rebel thrall. Reward: three permits for qualified Officers."

A blink crossed his red-rimmed eyes as he scanned the serial number again. He let out a chuckle that shook his chest, his armour creaking from the bounce. The laugh jostled his hungover headache, but he still pushed his heavy body from the ground and onto his hooves. Dusting his armour off, he tossed his yellow dripping cape back over his shoulder. His thick finger thumped the tiny response button to accept the mission. All he needed was a shower after dragging himself out of the dumpster lined alley he had ruined the night before and the mission would start. The permits did not entice him much, as a stud he tended to receive them as another order rather than a treat. But, bringing back the murderous son of the violent revolutionary, the Thrallmother, could earn him a promotion, or at least put him in the back of the culling queue for a while.


	4. A Dragon Drags a Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortus deals with some less than stellar service from an Imperium taxi pilot.

A rolling grumble thrummed through his chest and throat as he dug deep grooves in the dirt with his hooves as he waited for his transport. The sweeping scores had started to resemble the coils and spikes of dragons by the time the triangular ship’s hover engines blew them away. Landing gear popped out below the shuttle before it bounced down to land. Mortus stiffened up to a proper posture, even holding his trusty spear straight up and at attention. The ramp stretched out to his hooves and the thin, smiling Jennerit from the pictures from the Holonet shuffled into the doorway. 

“Come on, come on, I don’t have all day.” The impatience of the little man ground Mortus’s teeth. But he stepped up onto the ramp without a word, all the same. As the Brute said, it was not like he could be choosy. “Hurry, hurry.”

Mortus’s deathly eyes locked on the crimson ones below him with a stern growl. He flicked his wrist at him in a shooing motion as he rolled his eyes away. “Tarry on and get started on the take-off procedures then. I expect first-class service, sir. It’d not do well for you to be rude.”

The tiny man stepped out of his way, cocking Mortus's eyebrow ridge in concern. This shuttle barely buckled under his weight and he could stand without worrying of catching his horns on baggage netting or smacking his crest against the ceiling. A small sigh of relief escaped him as he made his way to the appropriately sized seat near the middle of the ship. The service might suck, but damn, the amenities were perfect. 

Mortus pulled out his Holopad to play some games during his flight, his full attention focused on squinting to see the little icons. He almost missed the grumpy Jennerit glaring daggers into the back of the device. Lowering it to his lap and setting it against his leg, Mortus raised his eyebrow ridges at him. “Might I query as to your intrusion into my privacy, mate?”

“Q.45-c.131, you’ve got some… interesting additions to your file.” The Jennerit crossed his arms, his long ear twitching with his smug grin. He inspected his nails. “Bringing a brutish deserter like you back would earn me a pretty credit or two.”

After setting his tablet aside, Mortus leaned forward and tented his fingers as he glowered down at the tiny man. “I’ll admit that I probably would.” He cocked his head as he nodded, nudging the man with the inside curve of his horn. “In fact, last I checked, I’m a prize worth more than just two credits. That’s what I get for runnin’ off the way I did, huh?” He chuckled as he leaned back in his seat and rested the back of his head in his hands. 

“Fine, you can have me.” He shrugged, a smile playing on the corners of his lips. Tight quarters meant that he could not move much without destroying the ship, Mortus understood that a fight would not end in his favour if he won. But, instilling just enough fear with enough confidence... “Call y’r help, get me in shackles, do what needs doin’ to take me back.”

Again, he leaned forward to see eye to eye with the squishy being. “But, ya gotta knock me out first. Ya know ‘ow my kind is: prone ta fits of rage, just some savage livestock. We wouldn’t want somethin’ ta set me off in your ship, right?”

With a sniff, Mortus could not help the snicker on his breath. Before the man could speak, the brute flicked his wrist to shoo him off to the cockpit. “Like I thought.“ Wiping his hands on his shorts, he snatched his pad again and loaded up a System Positioning System application. “Just take me ta the Ring. If there’s any blip that shows us goin’ ta Tempest I’ll show ya’ just how hard it is ta breathe in space. Got it?”

The decidedly not Sustained shuttle pilot gulped at the matter-of-factly stated threat. “All right, all right. I’ll take you there with no more issues,” he spat out with his hands raised. “You fit right in with that trash heap anyway.”

A deep growl rumbled in Mortus’ chest from that comment, but he opted to focus on the game on his datapad again instead of continuing his threat. The shuttle vibrated as the landing gear snapped back into position; the engines roared as the ship shot off to the cracked planet’s horizon. Silvery eyes peeked over the screen of the datapad to watch the long fingers of the pilot type something into the on-dash comms relay. The SPS showed they were on-course for the Ring, at least.

He knew that his ploy bought himself some time, but it was time bought on credit. Eventually, the Imperium would come knocking to collect their debt. For now, Mortus dismissed the worry, he needed to get his Gaboon.


	5. A Crossing of Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two stories finally become one

“Six thousand credits?!” Mortus’s usually deep, but soft-spoken voice broke into a snarling bark at the Jennerit’s offered price. Despite the outrageous offer, he thumbed the coinage from his pouch into his palm one by one. His stout plates down his neck quivered as he restrained his irritation. “That’s bollocks and ya bloody know it, mate.”

“You’ve got to consider the cost of fuel these days.” The Jennerit shrugged as he held his palm out. With a tilt of his head, he sneered up to the thrall out of the corner of his eye. One long ear gave an annoyed twitched as he drawled, “and the fee for carrying dangerous cargo.”

Mortus bared his teeth, the golden ones catching the gleam from the lights in the shuttle’s cabin. He rustled the pile of credits in his palm as he tried to choke the growl in his throat. “Feh. You're lucky I’m tryin’ ta be better ‘an that.” He held his hand over the pilot and sprinkled the mass of coins over his head, many bouncing off into the far corners of the ship. “'Ave a day, mate.”

Storming off the shuttle, each stomp of Mortus's hoof bowed the ramp below him. The door snapped closed behind him and the ship's engines revved as it lifted off. Sharp footed landing gear tucked into its underbelly as it turned away. Rage simmering in his soul as the growing distance sharpened the taxi's darkening silhouette, Mortus lifted his spear and chucked it. The hand-folded crimson alloy buried itself in the ship’s armour before it zipped away. Another growl rumbled through his taut jaw once the idiocy of that rash decision dawned on him; the last thing he wanted to be in that moment was unarmed deep in Arum's stronghold with the Imperium's eyes on his back.

Furrowing his brows, crinkling the delicate black skin that surrounded his silvery eyes, Mortus huffed as he watched his weapon disappear in the distance. Balling his fists to pop his knuckles, he turned his back to the closing docking bay to stride towards the garage for the one thing he took from the Imperium after the revolution, one Gaboon.

The Gaboon was a beauty of Jennerit engineering with its sleek angles across its thick, obsidian alloy armour. Its wings and body squatted low in its corner of the garage flattened to reduce its silhouette despite its great size. From a distance, one might think it was a simple Viper and seek safety out in the Dark beyond the Detritus Ring. A jungle of rocks whizzed about in the shadows beyond the light, a blender for any ship without proper armour. And the infinite distances of the universe were hungry for the fuel reserves. Yet, those who sought the safe umbrage of the darkness would find themselves stranded without fuel and the Gaboon still hot on their trail and plenty of reserves to drag the prisoners back to Tempest.

He ran his hand along the side of the fuselage, drinking in the sweep of the lines and the sturdiness of the armour. The light grit of the black coating scritched at his fingertips until his palm stopped over a large smooth panel, sized for his hand. He pressed it: a red light blinked in response with a harsh buzz. He pouted as he pressed it again: No access. 

“Aw, dammit…” His hand wandered to his lower back, where some of the wires from his augmented spine had jostled loose and snapped apart from his few years of freedom. His finger sought a specific thin patch of skin, prodding the key chip embedded in the flesh. The masters never trusted the thrall to keep track of something as important as a key, but they could not be bothered to let them into places they were needed. And, a key chip could be used to control where certain thrall were allowed to go, much to a young Mortus's dismay when he was locked out of the mess hall for his midnight snacks. He felt two pieces. “Of all the bits ta break…”

He groaned, rolling his eyes far enough to roll his neck. Shoulders drooped, he caught sight of Arum's ship toppled over in the hangar. Chunks of landing gear had been strewn across the ground, following a deep gouge that led to a rolled Viper laying across its crumpled wing. His nail tapped his horn. If Arum could install the chip in him… maybe they kept a box of key chips somewhere? With such a large crew, it only made sense that they would keep a stock of them on hand. If not, then the keys to Arum's ship would suffice.

His hoofsteps echoed through the still hallways, his nose scrunched from the oddly-sweet and too familiar stench. Each step kicked up strangely tinged dust and their tremors rattled the handful of skeletons that lined the walls as he passed. The serpent sure did a number on this place. Mortus’s head hung low, his horn aimed at the floor. 

If only he had not run. Each person the snake killed stained Mortus’s hands too. 

But at the same time, he could not let them take the snake to that gilded place. He could think and talk like everyone else; the snakes were not just animals. They were people, young pups, not even partially grown. Mortus thought that by turning a blind eye to the yellow serpent, he would find a friend to help his search. All he learned was that he was alone in this universe until he could rescue his horde of snakey dragons.

He took a deep breath to loosen the knot in his throat and palmed away the moisture from his bright cheek. Turning the corner, he noticed hoof prints in the disturbed dust. His head raised. Unarmed and not in the mood to get in a scrape with another decently sized thrall, Mortus considered retreating. Even a thrall half his size could gravely wound him if he were armed and an officer's armour provided better protection than his exposed flesh.

But, without that chip and that shuttle, Mortus was cornered. Mortus would have to defend himself and a few clever words wouldn't do it. With a hard stomp and a scrape of his thick hoof across the metal flooring, his battle roar tore past his throat through the rest of the ship.

When the echos quieted, Mortus leaned forward to listen closer. Another roar responded, not as loud and without the scrape of a typical thrall's; the accent reminded Mortus of the old masters if one were to ever learn to speak thrall.

Trotting towards the source of the other, the sweet dust kicked up with each step. He skidded as he hit the corner, running into the wall and nearly toppling himself over, but he managed to continue going. Another growling call rumbled nearby, far closer now. Slowing down at the next corner, he turned to see a fully armoured Thrall at the other end of the hallway. 

His head cocked to the side. The Bonecrusher’s horns curled outward, much like his horns did when he was a whelp in need of his brace. A thick crest sat atop his head, the gold braces at the corners reminding him somewhat of a crown. His hand wandered to his own cracked mess of a crest; he’d never seen another with one quite like his. 

“Q.45,“ the other snarled as he drew his bladed maces, the head adorned with four twisted horns. “Ya know, I’d always wondered what one of ‘er whelps was like. Y’re a big sucker, aren’t ya?”

Unarmed, without even a shirt to protect his back, Mortus eyed the dangerous-looking weapons in the other’s hands. He kept his head forward, his body tense as he watched for any aggressive move from the other. “I don’t know ‘bout all that business… I’m just me, mate.” He waved his hand to the side to strengthen his point. “Lemme pass and nothin’ll happen. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

The other barked a laugh, Mortus could smell the burning stench of homebrewed liquor from his spot twenty feet away. “You don’t wanna hurt me? Bah!” As he shook his curled horned head, his hooves sidestepped to keep him from careening to the side. “You’re really the kid what killed Gresham with a bloody pacifyin’ anchor? I swear freedom’s made you weak, boy.”

Mortus hoof dented the floor. “I am not weak!” He roared, his voice shaking the walls around him. “I am good! Good folk don't hurt someone just 'cause they're standin' in their way!"

The other’s eyebrow ridge cocked at the bold statements of the other. Nonsense was what it was. “Thrall don’t get ta be good, ya daft pup." He sneered, yellowed eyes looking over the chunky brute. He could still be useful, even as fertilizer for the agri-ship. "Thrall serve the Imperium. Any deed, any price.”

It had been a while since Mortus last charged anyone. Nearly six months hanging in a cave deep below Ekkunar and another couple of months recovering in the jungle left him feeling rusty. But as his shoulder struck the armour and slammed the other thrall into the wall with a sickening crack, it just felt right. Twin maces clattered onto the ground as Mortus’s hand grabbed the other’s face, ignoring the points of horn piercing his palm. He slammed his crest into the wall until a spidery halo of cracks spread out behind him.

Instead of fighting back, the other had stilled. Mortus let go and the armour clanged against the ground as the body inside crumpled. “Shit…” he murmured under his breath as he wiped his bleeding hand onto his black and red shorts. A green tinge shimmered amongst the dark fabric, unbeknownst to the colour-blind giant. “I'asn’t meanin’ ta hit ya that hard.” He knelt down close to the slumped Thrall, his eyes scanning for any sign of life. Another murder, more violence, more hurt... maybe the idiot was right. There was no such thing as a good thrall. However once he noticed the gentle shift of the armour plating from the body's breathing, Mortus took a sigh of relief. “Least y’re alive.”

Gathering up the unconscious body, he set off to find that box of chips in Arum’s office. A good Thrall would not let a brother die from toxic dust, after all. Even if he were a loyalist and an enemy. The work was slow going, especially with his hand slipping its grip from the gratuitous streams of blood from his punctures, but with determination, he managed to juggle the Bonecrusher and the box at once.

Once inside the Gaboon, he set down the body into the cargo hold and took his seat in the pilot’s chair. Thick, comfortable badger leather chair had adequate suspension for his massive frame. His hooves even had wiggle room below. A well-loved click of the Gaboon's interface syncing with his cybernetics tickled at his brainstem assuring that this ship was his and his alone.

This… this was surely heaven.


	6. The Fall of Torqueonus

Consciousness crept, tip-toeing across Torque's skin. His palm squeaked along the metal floor, sinking into the soft surface as it slithered into fractals forever. Sparkles waltzed inside his skull, numbness fluttered its wings across his body cementing him in place. Where were his hands? Had he misplaced them?  
Torque’s melted eyelids parted. When had he tossed his arm all the way over there? A cough erupted from his throat, hacking up a gush of some almond-scented coppery liquid in a waterfall past his lip. Despite the obvious torrent pouring past his lip, his chin and the floor below remained dry but swam in concentric swathes of molten metal. “Urrg?”  
His hand shifted across the floor again; his skin vibrated as his vambrace scraped against the alloys of the floor he was sprawled across. Dropping his half-strange palm across his face, he palmed away the multitude of his soaking sweat and the barest dribble of drool. His eyelids strained to stay open, his yellowed eyes peered into his palm at all of the wriggling ridges and valleys that branched across his skin and the brushstroke of unfathomable ink. Images of serpents swam in the shimmering greens and reds. “Huh?”  
The ground rumbled around him; disembodied hooves stopped just past his curled knuckles. “Eh, kinda hoped you wouldn’t be up ‘til after you're off the ship…” the voice muttered, the silvery glow from their eyes wavering and fragmenting into pools in the dark spaces of the deathly mask of the speaker.   
Torque could hear his eyes crinkle as he stared up to the other. The ringing of his crest tolled; that thrall was responsible for the throbbing headache between his horns. Feeble fury flared from the scant memory of their battle: what an idiot.  
A burble bubbled through his numbed lips in response, his hand tumbled from his face to slap against the hard, liquid ground in retort.  
“I really hate to do this to you, but I can’t let you know where I’m campin’, you know? It's nothin' personal” Torque reached out for the disappearing lights which left him in a pool of swaying colour. He could make out a light green splotch moving around, a stray swish reaching out for… something. A digital beep played and knocked around in the Bonecrusher’s brain before the floor gave way in a woosh of barking wind and blinding light.   
Torque fell  
and fell...  
and fell  
a  
n  
d  
...

Glass shattered all around him, the cutting brightness of the fall spliced into the gutting darkness of the knife-laced hole. Sparkles twinkled through granular snowflakes, each iota slicing the nothingness with multi-faceted refraction. Crushing, creaking suffering sledgehammered into his shoulder. It spilled from his mouth into horror and ache that skittered across the crystalline floor. Stars that should not be glimmered among the reality of rainbows and ice. His hands were stained in their disappearance, unwillingly.  
Lying eyes adjusted to the abyss.  
All around him for an immeasurable distance were white rocks jutting in every which way. The light from his entrance poured through in droplets of rainbows and stripes around him. Placing his palm down, his shoulder complained in plain language that he could not decipher. Torque groaned, the pervasive heat of the molten light around him only agitating the overwhelming melted wetness against his skin and armor.  
Was he dead? Propping himself upon his shoulder, he shook his head in a vain effort to dispel the unreality. But all it left him was with a fresh trail of emerald-tinged drool across a valley of splitting pain. It seemed he was alive, just out-of-touch.  
Growling, snarling, padded paws and massive fangs approached. A blocky, wiggly-nosed snout pressed against the side of curled horns. Fur? No, threads of glass. Bright red lines scratched across his cheek and neck from the prickly soft hair. Torque was caught up in the riptide of this mysterious shining beast, his cannon trapped between its fangs. The puddle of illuminated safety shrank before his eyes as the animal dragged him into the maw of darkness.  
He kicked out at the icy beast, but he could not overcome the powerful grip of its massive paw. How big was this thing? Had Torque shrunk? Is this even real?   
Dropping Torque at the base of a clear outcropping, the creature bumped his back with its nose to seat him at the makeshift table. A crackling grunt hit his ears as he was shoved forward to lean his chest against the surface. Torque blinked, sending sparklers from the corners of his vision to pervade the darkness within and the darkness without as the mystifying glow of monster’s paws padded past him. Its fur jingled as it plopped down to sit across from him, the lacerating stalactites above chiming their shaking threat in answer.   
One thought sprouted in Torque's mind as his eyes drank in the beast: cedar bears. But that was not right, even a thrall knew that wood did not come in crystal. A titanic paw slammed down onto the table inches from the farthest curves of his horns. “What be you?” it growled, its humming breath washing over Torque’s face like an ocean of fish guts and bee burrows. Hunger dribbled past frosted fangs and alabaster gums. It leaned over Torque, its nose continuing its dance of investigation. “You are like me, but stunted.”  
“Not a bear,” Torque managed to mumble, the words tumbling oddly on the meaty appendage in his mouth. Why did it not fit? And why did the roof of his mouth have ridges? “‘M Thrall.”  
“Thrall?” The huge head dropped to rest its chin on the surface, brows furrowed in confusion. “I do not know Thrall. You are not Az….i?”  
Try as he might, Torque’s brain could not hear the last word. Its notes fell apart when he tried to grasp it. “No. Thrall. Proud, loyal, servant... nothin’." Torque's gaze fell away from the boring eyes of the creature to the top of his chin. "I’m nothin’.”  
“Nothing? But you said you were Thrall?”  
“I'm nothin’. Push a button, new picture, pull the trigger, destroy the star, grab the knife, pluck the eye. That's all I am, nothin'.”  
A claw hooked under Torque's cheekbone to jab his exposed gumline, the point so fine it punctured with ease. Deflating, Torque’s head jerked up at the bear’s command. “I cannot eat nothing. You are disappointing.” Twinkling fragments chimed as the bear’s head tilted. “But not nothing. You help nothing, but you are something.” It dropped Torque’s head onto the surface, spider-webbed cracks crawled out from under his chin. It hummed as it shook its shoulders to adjust its thick coat. “You are like me. Odd, misshapen... roughly spoken? But just like me. A proud A.....ti.”   
Torque’s hand feebly wandered across the fresh ocean of cracks across the once pristine surface. Tiny rebellion shimmered in the loyalist's heart: he did not understand this dream. The beast spoke of eating him, but he was too important to be some monster's next meal. “Wheat…chaff, grain…stalk, essence… diluent. Each in their place. My place is nothin’. I’m nothin’, not a bear.”  
A white lip snarled revealing the translucent canines. Annoyance staticked through its chest and maw. “You are insulting. You cannot be important and nothing at the same time. And I said I cannot eat you. We have been lobotomized.”  
Slack-jawed, Torque watched the beast shake its head and bury its snout in its paw. Had Torque been thinking out loud?  
“Yes, you have, Torqueonus.” Claws scraped across the crystal surface, deep trenches dusted with flakes of glass. “Moreover, in your mind. It is loud and stupid.” The bear stood up, its head seeming to surpass the prickly ceiling. Where did it end and where did the room begin? “You have trespassed into sacred chambers and disturbed my solitude. Then you feed me riddles of darkened stars and wheat. You cannot even admit what you are–”  
“Nothin’.”  
“–Again with that!” Both paws slammed just beyond Torque’s elbows. Above certain death shook, a few spears burying their shattering tips into the ground beside Torque. Fangs and dead fish hovered over heavy-lidded eyes in an eruption of speckled foam and sonorous fury. “If you are nothing, then that is what you shall be. A reflection of the void reveals the void, a reflection of you shall be yourself.”  
The canines crunched through his armor as if it were a chocolate shell, massive lances bored through flesh and bone with ease. Out of touch and sinking into the hard, fuzzy surface of the crystalline table, Torque’s eyelids fell and dragged him down with them.  
Floating in the abyss, rage inflamed his bones. The snap of belts as his muscles strained and outgrew what was left of his armoured plating. He hurt and bolted from the beast's cramped trap towards the slight breeze that rustled his mane.  
Sounds and pictures flowed through his mind like a river, a constant current of loam sticking to paws, a mass of green fur, petrified eyes of a teeny, elf-like being, claws digging through flesh, cutting through bone. A whimper of a death rattle. Blood caked around his face, the taste of her flesh on his tongue. Solid ground, a green-lit computer antennae sprang to life. Lush, verdant surroundings flashed into white digital light and then deep violet, crimson, and gold. Obsidian and rare metals abound. Shocked vampires, parents grasping children, covering their eyes from the mangled corpse in his maw. An alleyway reeking of piss, a dumpster for cover. Warm furred body plopped down, an abundance of legs. Fuss becomes fuzz and fuzz becomes sleep.  
Torque awoke head down in a puddle of something he hoped was his own drool. Groaning, he pushed up his naked body to flop up against the side of the dumpster. Palming away the moisture from his face, the coppery tang of blood with an Aelfrin zing touched his tongue. He stared at his hand, furrowing his brow then raising them. Blood, a ton of it. Beside him lay what he could barely describe as a strip of flesh still attached to the bare bones of some tiny humanoid.  
It seemed his old work habits from Hylis might have cropped up while he was drunk the night before. He tried to fish out his rough handkerchief to discover only his hip. With his belt missing, it meant his comms was gone.  
The masters had to be looking for him. Even as unpresentable as he is, Torque rose to his hooves, the new position sending his head spinning. With his palm to the side of his face and his shoulder screaming for some attention to what seemed like a broken everything, he could only conclude that he had also bothered Vocatia again. This… meat had to be one of her strippers. A rebel. Gathering what he could, he limped back to the transporter.  
He had to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note for this chapter: Mortus grew an immunity to all kinds of toxins, poisons, and drugs from his time period with Pendles. But all those toxins have got to go somewhere so they just hang around in his blood.
> 
> Torque got a good taste of it in the last installment.


	7. A Lion in Thrall's Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torque tries to do the right thing, but Vocatia is not hearing any of it.

Vocatia huffed as she wiped the damp washcloth across the bartop for the seventh time in the last dead hour. With no customers to rain credits upon the dancers, Vocatia saw little point to keep them on the clock. Hopefully, they were enjoying their extra hours off before the evening. Even Rictus skittered off to see his fishy beau elsewhere in the system.

This left the Thrallmother tending the pristine bar for a few hours. It was fine, if boring and a little lonely. Digging her nail into a groove where the two pieces of wood met to free the residue of past cleanings, she wondered if she should call Gnoll to come by and bug her for a few hours. But, he was busy doing his part to protect the universe, fighting star eaters and closing their portals. So she figured she could endure a little boredom in return. She grunted as she leaned over the counter and lowered her head to stretch her back.

Propping her head onto her palm, she stared at the door with a wistful sigh. Just a few more hours. Who knows? Gnoll might be back to regale her of the details of his mission. She sighed again, her eyes closing to dream of his heroic figure cutting back the nightmarish armies.

Her eyes snapped open and she straightened up when she heard the door open. The initial syllable of her standard customer greeting was stopped dead as her jaw snapped shut in disgust. Torque. Flicking her wrist to shoo him away, she growled, "Get out. Not in the mood to deal with’ you.”

“Bah.” The exhausted Bonecrusher dismissed her dismissal with his own hand-wave. His dark ring of scars across his chest dimpled his thin under armour. "We got business and it's just goin’ to be a minute, don’t be dumb.“

"I ain’t dumb, you daft post,” she barked, her razor-thin patience tearing to reveal the boiling rage beneath. Her horns remembered each pair of scars on the other's chest: the eldest the day she returned with Jacques from the culling chambers, the most recent from a late-night where a sloshed Torque begged for her forgiveness after he thrashed her bar. “Get. Out.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Torque sighed, "I was just wantin’ to tell you that I got one of your girls last night.“

With the gait and deliberation of a caged tiger, she strode out from behind the counter. Her plates shivered, the anxious jingling of her golden rings more threatening than a rattlesnake's tail. She knew her girls were all right, each one came down for breakfast and checked in for work that day. But, if he was murdering young girls with his history of harassing her... "Whaddaya mean you ”got“ one of my girls? Speak slow."

“Look, I was drunk…” Torque averted his stare as his voice lowered. 

“Go on.”

“I don’t remember. I woke up in a ditch with her stripped down to the bone." Torque paced in place, gesturing both hands towards the floor as if the corpse lay between them. Tension and veins bulged from his shoulders and neck as he admitted, "I don’t even know where I found her or even which one. Just thought you should know…“

Vocatia wondered how much of this was some act to slime back into her good graces. 

"You just "thought”? You should've done that before ya got her." Her lips curled back as she stared him down, her head dipped as her glacier glare aimed for his damnable hearts. 

She charged.

Both golden horns crunched through meaty flesh and bone. A choked screech whistled through Torque's collapsing lung, his hands uselessly trying to grasp the scantily clad woman. Vocatia’s arms wrapped around his waist as she forced him backwards. Glasses clinked as they shivered from her exerted roar; the tips of Torques hooves left the floor as she lifted him.

Just as she twisted to slam Torque back to the ground, his pained yowling tore into an ear-splitting growl. Her head jerked down by the horn as his hooves reunited with the floor. Snarling, she tried digging her horn deeper into his chest, but the sprouting fluff of long fur stuck to her bare teeth. Vo pulled back to unstick the hair from her mouth. Thick claws buried themselves into Vocatia's fleshy back, drawing surprised yelp. She opened her eyes to see that it was not the idiot she loathed pinning her, but the hairy maw of some maned “dog” aimed for her trapped skull. 

She shrieked as she struggled to pull herself off of him, but the ground fell away from beneath her prim, manicured hooves. His thickening hands held her in a tight, sharp vice grip. She kicked and lashed out at his exposed stomach, ripping her horn from the beastly flesh. Determined to survive this sudden nightmare, she punched the gaping puncture hidden beneath the forest of new hair and dug her fist inside the slippery flesh.

Her lips pulled back as she groped around in the viscera for something, anything to yank the other thrashed and roared with every twitch of her fingers. Something pulsed against her nail tips. She wrapped her hand around the throbbing fruit and crushed it.

Claws dislodged from her skin as he struggled to pry her off; the beast whined as it reared up and kicked out its front hooves. Clinging for her life to the slick, thrashing organ in one hand, she fisted chunk of hair in the other. She took advantage of his awkward stance in this strange six-limbed body and swung her legs to one side, tugging at his hair to force him down. The scrape of a weighty hoof slipping against the plush carpeted ground prophesied the careen that would topple the mighty monster. Tearing herself out of him, she fell. Landing with a heavy plumf on her side and shoulder, she rolled onto her stomach to protect her crests and get out of the way of him. Glasses and bottles shook from their shelves as he crashed into the ground in a splay of kicking hooves. 

Torque’s paws clutched his chest; a strained whine bubbled up his throat. Gasping for breath, Vocatia stared at the former Thrall. The only remnants of his old form were curved horns, his belt, and the thick crest crowning his skull. A thick, shaggy, and now blood-drenched mane lined the wide snout of his face. “Torque?”

He said nothing. Only a glance rimmed with betrayed tears answered her. Kicking out twice, he tried onto his lower stomach, he pushed himself onto his shaky hooves and bent over to trot out of the door of the club. 

The creamy greyed skin of her cannon and thigh darkened to a burgundy rivalling her outfit. Unable to get up from the floor, she could only watch, dumbfounded, unsure of what just transpired. 

Struggling to roll over to crawl towards the bar, she winced as the lacerations across her back complained from the stretch of her shoulders. She started to reach around to check them, but she thought better of it when she spotted the crimson coating drying on her hands. Groaning, she dragged herself behind the bar and fumbled for her comms device and first aid kit. She wondered if Alani was available for an emergency session, or possibly TZ's medic friend. Regardless, she would be okay.

But, she was not sure about her mortal enemy. What had the old masters done to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story canonically makes the first floor of the Sinful Bat over 30ft high. Beast!Torque stands at nearly 20 feet tall with all of his hooves on the ground, so with him rearing back, it makes the room excessively tall.
> 
> Vo took out a few floors so the more titanic thrall could be comfortable in the space. 
> 
> Lastly, she would've killed Torque here. Him murdering some girl in a drunken state would be the first confirmation to her that he's actually dangerous and not just an idiot.


End file.
